Tryptych
by JoBabeAlly
Summary: After his return to the land of the living, Sherlock makes an interesting discovery about John Watson, and an even more interesting discovery about Molly Hooper. Conclusions are drawn, decisions are made, and the three embark on a new relationship. Unapologetic Jollock PWP. FIRST CHAPTER REWRITTEN WITH NEW ENDING. Now Complete.
1. Johnlock

_Author's Note: This is my first foray into Sherlock fandom, and my first attempt at slash and a threesome so please be kind. Warnings for consensual polyamory, please don't read if you don't like that kind of thing. Reviews gladly welcomed and PMs promptly responded to. Enjoy! (Oh, I own nothing but the smutty plot, such as it is, and the words that come out of the character's mouths.)_

_Gahh! Forgot to mention that this was totally inspired by jennoftheglenn's brilliant "John's Interludes for Three." Go. Read. Now! (After, ahem, reading this first...)_

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**Part One: Johnlock**

It starts with an accidentally overheard wank session and escalates quickly from there.

Sherlock Holmes is the first to admit that he is out of his depth when it comes to most forms of social interaction, except where it pertains directly to a case – and even then he has come to rely heavily on his few friends and colleagues to assist him when even his keen mind is baffled by the emotional aspects.

He used to have one friend; now he counts himself as having two close ones – John Watson and Molly Hooper – and two not quite as close friends, his landlady, Martha Hudson, and DI Greg Lestrade. Even though the man tried to arrest him for a crime he didn't commit, even though that action was part of the chain that ultimately lead to Sherlock having to fake his own death (with the invaluable assistance of Molly Hooper), he is still counted as a friend. Because one thing Sherlock Holmes does not do is hold a grudge.

Well, except for his brother Mycroft, but family grudges are completely different.

He has been back from his two-year exile for nearly six months, has seen his reputation restored, been briefly a celebrity again, and has once more been able to sink back into relative (and much preferred) obscurity as some other new scandal captures the public attention.

He knows he will never be able to fully return to the life Moriarty disrupted, but he is satisfied with the way things are.

More or less.

One major change has occurred in his psyche since he jumped off the roof of St. Bart's: he is no longer as contemptuous of sentiment as he once was.

He still regards it as a weakness; after all, if he hadn't had _feelings_ for Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and John Watson, he never would have found himself in the position of having to fake his death in the first place.

On the other hand, it is sentiment that has saved him as well, since if Molly Hooper hadn't loved him so completely and unconditionally (in spite of years of him trying his best to push her away, to prove to her that he was unworthy of her love and loyalty) he would never have had someone to assist him, and his fake suicide might have ended up being real.

All in all, he decides to consider it a wash. Sentiment is a weakness, yes, but he has discovered that it can also be a strength.

However, it has also placed him into his current dilemma.

When he first met John Watson, on that memorable night where they became involved in the case his blogger has called "A Study In Pink," he told him he considered himself married to his work. At the time, he'd mistakenly believed John was attempting to initiate some sort of romantic or at least sexual relationship with him.

Since then he has come to understand that John is firmly heterosexual, always has been, and that it was simply courtesy and an attempt to learn more about his potential flat mate that prompted his questions regarding Sherlock's relationship status. An embarrassing error, but Sherlock freely admits that such things – not just girlfriends – are not his area.

Now, however, when he has tentatively come to the conclusion that he would like to initiate a sexual relationship with Molly Hooper, he has made an interesting – and completely accidental – discovery, all because he needed tooth floss.

John is in the shower when Sherlock bounds up the stairs, intending to simply duck into the other man's lav and snag the tooth floss from where it habitually rests on the edge of the sink. As he eases open the unlocked door, he hears John's voice from the shower and realizes that he is masturbating.

This is nothing unusual; when John is in between girlfriends he is a rather enthusiastic wanker, highly vocal and unrestrained from what Sherlock has ascertained through several unintended overhearings, generally deep in the night when John could reasonably expect to have complete privacy. The first time was when Sherlock was supposed to be out at a rather tedious diplomatic dinner at his brother Mycroft's behest, investigating the possibility that the diplomat in question was selling state secrets to the Russians (he was). Sherlock had determined his culpability early on, texted the proof to his brother and excused himself before dessert was served.

When he'd returned home, it was to discover that he needed the tooth floss to remove some stubborn remnants of the overdone pork he'd eaten only for the sake of his cover, had none of his own and run up the stairs to borrow John's.

The other man had neglected to completely shut his bedroom door, and Sherlock was treated to the sounds of his enthusiastic groans and swears and a litany of women's names that made it clear exactly what activity the other man was treating himself to.

Sherlock had never and never would allow himself to be pigeonholed sexually. He'd long subsumed his physical passions (aside from the occasional need to relieve himself by the same method John was currently employing, although much more quietly) in the work, ignoring them to the point where many thought they simply didn't exist – John included.

That first overheard masturbation session had, however, stirred something long dormant in him, and he'd hastily backed down the stairs before he was tempted to continue listening long enough to develop an erection and find himself in need of similar relief.

He'd filed John's activities away, but hadn't deleted the memory, and hadn't bothered exploring why that was. Nor had he deleted the additional six other masturbatory occasions he'd accidentally overheard whilst in the process of borrowing something from John's washroom (he was constantly finding himself running out of shampoo or conditioner or soap and John had apparently decided it was best to just keep extras on hand since Sherlock was going to "borrow" them no matter how much he protested). He didn't try to understand why he kept those memories filed away instead of deleting them, either.

Until now, three years later, when he finds himself in a similar position, overhearing the other man's groans and moans and muttered swears, the slap of skin on skin as his hand works his shaft, all to the accompaniment of the shower – and finds himself rooted to the floor when he distinctly hears his own name being uttered.

Well. This is…unexpected. John has always been straight as a die, always has been (not even experimental sessions in school or at uni or in the army), so what has caused this change?

He mulls it over as he continues to listen, knowing he should leave but too intrigued (and, although he is loathe to admit it, aroused) by what he is overhearing to do so. He tentatively concludes that during his absence, which he knows John felt keenly, that he'd mourned his friend's supposed death a great deal more than Sherlock believed – and that, at some point during that absence, John's feelings for him must have altered to include physical desire.

He feels his arousal increasing at that realization, and finally makes his way out of the washroom (carefully returning the tooth floss to its exact location once he pulls out a long enough strand to take care of his inconvenient problem), backing out and softly closing the door.

Once on the other side, he leans on the door for a long moment, continuing to listen as John reaches his climax, hoarsely calling out Sherlock's name as he does so (_God, Sherlock, fuck, yeah, so good, Sherlock..._).

This alters a great deal. Unless, of course, it is simply a one-off, an experiment on John's part. Or perhaps it is only something he would feel comfortable with fantasizing about rather than allowing such intimacies outside of the privacy of his own mind.

In any case, Sherlock has inadvertently invaded that privacy and concludes that there is nothing he can do about it except leave John to his shower.

This would present no problem but for two things: the memory refuses to remain in the room he has reserved for all things sexual in his mind palace; and his change in perception toward Molly Hooper.

Since allowing himself to recognize that there he does have some use for sentiment, to consider the possibility of allowing himself to once again indulge in sexual relations (contrary to what Jim Moriarty believed, Sherlock is not and has not been a virgin since his first year at uni), he has only considered a monogamous relationship with Molly Hooper. She loves him, she wants him, and, more importantly, she seems to understand his emotional limitations.

The question is, would she be willing to share him with John if John is, indeed, willing to explore an alternate sexuality to what he has always wanted in the past?

Because he himself is certainly not averse to the possibilities opening up before him.

He will have to conduct further research before any conclusions can be reached. He will start with John, he decides as he moves silently down the stairs and enters his bedroom.

**oOo**

When John emerges from the shower he is feeling the usual mix of guilt and pleasure and shame and physical satisfaction and emotional turmoil he always does these days after wanking off to the fantasy of Sherlock Holmes sucking his dick. He's not gay, he's never been gay, never had stirrings of any kind even during a prostate exam – of which he's undergone exactly five – yet ever since Sherlock's supposed suicide and miraculous return, he's found himself entertaining thoughts and ideas that have never even invaded his sleeping mind in the past.

It is incredibly disturbing; for the first time in his adult life, he feels uncomfortable in his own skin, as if some invading force has taken over his subconscious and inserted desires there he never would have entertained on his own.

His worries that he is undergoing some late-in-life conversion to homosexuality are relieved when he covertly views some gay porn and finds himself completely and utterly uninterested in it as anything other than instructional – so those were the positions possible, hmm, he'd have thought only "doggie style" would work, interesting…but as for becoming aroused by the men themselves? Nothing. Not so much as a single stirring in his dick.

However, picturing himself and Sherlock in some of those poses…he is harder than he's ever been in his life, or at least that's how it feels.

To make it even more confusing, he still wants to have sex with women – any woman at this point, he thinks, since he's been in a mostly self-inflicted dry spell since Sherlock's disappearance and reappearance. In fact, the only woman not old enough to be his mother he's spent any time with lately has been Molly Hooper.

He was a bit out of sorts with her once her part in Sherlock's fake suicide was revealed (only to him, Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade, since she could be liable for breaking any number of laws if the world at large was to discover the part she played), but that has passed. He has gone from resentment and outrage to grudging acceptance and even admiration for her ability to keep her mouth shut when she knew how much Sherlock's friends were hurting, to complete understanding at how difficult and painful it has been for her. Almost as painful as if Sherlock had actually offed himself, truth be told, since she bore a great deal of guilt as well as the heaviness of keeping such a secret to herself.

He's always admired her rather gruesome skill set, the way she remains so cheerful even when cutting open a corpse, how well she's always handled herself in spite of the constant disappointment of Sherlock never noticing that she is a willing female who wants him and loves him and would do anything for him. She kept it together at that horrible Christmas party – the first and last one he ever gave – when Sherlock ripped her to shreds without ever meaning to, oblivious to her feelings until it was almost too late to salvage her regard for him.

The way he'd apologized – actually, sincerely apologized, a first in John's book – and kissed her on the cheek had gone a long toward his redemption. If Irene fucking Adler and her moaning text tone hadn't interrupted, who knew how things might have progressed? Sherlock recognizing that Molly actually had feelings and that he'd hurt them – and had been hurting them for a very long time – had been a huge step, progress being made toward becoming more human. But Irene Adler and her games had derailed any progress that might have been made, leaving Molly Hooper back where she'd always been, or at least, back where John had always believed her to be: on the periphery, in Sherlock's orbit but unnoticed except when he needed something from her, to be given insincere flattery and smiles in exchange for her assistance.

She'd since assured John that that hadn't been the case when Sherlock had sought out her help during the Moriarty business. He'd told her she counted and that he'd always trusted her, then turned around and actually proved himself to sincerely mean those words. Unfortunately the circumstances then had been even worse than during the Adler case and so things between the two of them had only progressed, to John's knowledge, as far as friendship, in spite of Molly's obvious longing for more.

While Sherlock was "dead" he'd even toyed with the idea of asking Molly out, letting himself get drunk enough to proposition her and see if they could work off some of their grief together. Although he quickly gave up on that idea as pointless since it was clear Molly was never going to get over his best friend, dead or alive, he'd still entertained quite a few fantasies in which she featured quite heavily.

Still does, truth be told. Almost as many fantasies as Sherlock himself now occupies in his mind. He'd even had a few where the three of them…but that will never happen. Molly has no interest in him as anything other than a friend, and Sherlock, although a bit more open to sentiment than he had been before his fall from the roof, is still the same sexless androgyne he'd been before.

Still The Virgin, probably forever The Virgin, just as Mycroft would always be The Iceman. And if things keep on like this, he'll always be the fucking Confirmed Bachelor when all he'd wanted for years was to find the right woman and settle into married life, maybe have a few kids and a house in the suburbs.

Well. That might be a bit disingenuous of him, especially since he knows what an adrenaline junkie he really is. It certainly spices up his fantasy life when he pictures himself – with either Sherlock or Molly or both – falling into bed together after some life-threatening situation has been overcome.

Molly frequently needs rescuing in his favorite fantasies, requiring that he untie her from a bed or chair and ending with her grateful mouth on his dick…

He is half hard by the time he enters the sitting room, discreetly adjusting his jeans as he does so…

…and coming to a shocked stop in the doorway as he is greeted with the sight of Sherlock Holmes, completely naked, sitting cross-legged on the couch with John's laptop the only thing covering him.

**oOo**

Sherlock had listened carefully as John made his way down the stairs, staging himself so that he could see the results of his little experiment quite clearly from the corner of his eye whilst appearing to be fully engrossed in the computer screen before him. John had paused half-way down as if he'd forgotten something and intended to return to his en suite, but after nearly twenty seconds of silence had resumed his journey to the main floor of the shared flat.

Whatever the reason, he dismisses that slight pause from his mind, concentrating on the experiment at hand. When he hears John enter the room and then immediately stop, sucking in his breath in a startled hiss, he keeps his lips from quirking up in a satisfied smile, instead scowling fiercely at the screen and punching in a rapid series of keystrokes meant only to convince John that he is concentrating so hard on what he is doing that he is unaware of the other man's entrance into the room.

He hears a distinct swallowing sound as John remains where he's stopped, obviously unsure how to proceed with this unexpected sight. Yes, Sherlock has wandered round the flat clad in nothing but his boxers or a sheet from his bed, but he has never deliberately flaunted his nudity this way. It is…rather freeing, to allow himself to be so deliberately provocative while pretending to be simply unselfconscious, and it is certainly alluring to feel John's eyes on him as he pretends to remain unaware of his friend's presence.

From the corner of his eye he has a clear view of John's midsection and groin, and what is clearly an erection grows visibly larger as John makes a strangled sound and turns and bolts up the stairs. "For God's sake, Sherlock, put some fucking clothes on!" he calls out as he races back up to his room. "I'm not coming back down until you're fucking decent!"

The sound of his door slamming brings a very satisfied smiled to Sherlock's face. Experiment successful. John is, indeed, sexually interested in him.

He jumps up from the couch, closing the laptop and depositing it on the coffee table as he quietly makes his way upstairs.

None of the interior doors of the flat lock, so he is able to ease John's door open after listening carefully for a moment. There is nothing wrong with continuing to gather data, even when the conclusion seems inevitable.

He hears John groaning, the bed springs give a slight squeak, and then he hears what he has been hoping to hear: the sound of his own name, followed by a spate of curse words...and then, interestingly enough...the sound of Molly Hooper's name.

He eases the door open wide enough to edge into the room. John's eyes are screwed shut as he lies back on his bed, legs dangling over the side. One hand is firmly grasping his cock – a lovely shade of red at the moment and a bit larger than Sherlock had estimated, mmmm – and the other cups his balls as he moans out Sherlock's name again.

It is too much for Sherlock to resist. He strides noiselessly to the bedside, his own erection bobbing as he walks. He strokes himself as he watches John – naked only from the waist down, shirt and jumper rucked up around his armpits – then drops to his knees between the other man's legs.

"Why don't you let me help you with that, John?" he asks, deliberately lowering his voice to a deeper register.

Then he pushes John's hands away, leans forward, and takes his friend's cock into his mouth, sucking hard and snapping his eyes shut at the sheer pleasure of the moment.

**oOo**

John's eyes snap open as he hears Sherlock's voice; what the fuck is he doing...

A deep groan escapes him as he feels Sherlock's mouth slip over the head of his dick, sucking and licking. He has shoved John's hands away, and he is momentarily too stunned to react.

When he does react, it isn't the way his mind insists he should. He does not shout or stand up or shove Sherlock away from between his legs.

He groans again and sits up, burying his hands in the other man's hair. "Christ, Sherlock, yeah, just like that, God, suck harder, please..."

And he does. For once in his life Sherlock bloody Holmes actually – and quite enthusiastically – takes direction from John Watson. He is a bloody miracle, those plump lips stretched out around John's girth, his head leaning forward as he takes John's entire length into his mouth and throat and...oh GOD...licks John's testicles, one at a time, massaging them with his tongue and it's so good, so fucking good, the best he's ever had, no blow job was ever like this, the only thing that could make this moment even more perfect would be if a woman – preferably Molly Hooper – was riding his face with her cunt...

He comes with a shout, a jumble of swears and Sherlock's name and even, he realizes after the fact, Molly's name.

Sherlock swallows his cum and kisses the tip of John's cock as he allows it to slide out of his mouth when John starts coming down from his orgasmic high.

"Yes, John, you're not gay," he says before his friend can do more than open his mouth on the obvious protests. "However, it is possible to make a single exception for the right person, as we've just demonstrated."

John stares at him, clearly flustered, clearly wrestling with his perception of himself juxtaposed against the rather intense orgasm he's just experienced at the hands – and mouth – of another man. His closest friend.

"Christ," he finally mutters, collapsing back on the bed, one arm over his eyes. "Yeah, I'm not gay. I don't have sex with men."

He then does something remarkable. He looks at Sherlock, who has risen to his feet, and pats the bed next to him. "Lie down," he grumbles. Sherlock does so, cautiously, not sure if he is about to be lectured or throttled for taking matters into his own hands – er, mouth.

"You heard me, in the shower," John says.

Sherlock nods cautiously. John removes his arm from his eyes and turns on his side to study his friend's face. He reaches out and traces a line from Sherlock's ear to his chin with one finger. "I don't have sex with men," he repeats, softer this time, and Sherlock nods, expecting to be told this was a one-off and it will never happen again...

...when John once again surprises him. He sighs and traces Sherlock's lower lip with his thumb. "I only have sex with one man. You," he says, a slight grin curving his lips.

Sherlock returns the expression and reaches out to trace the same line down John's cheek and chin. He gets the reference; of course he does.

_I have only one friend. You._

Only now he has two friends. And when he explains his plans to John, how he intends to bring Molly Hooper into this new relationship – for his own sake as well as John's, not, he reassures the other man, merely because he knows John will be much more comfortable if there is at least one person in bed with a vagina and breasts – his words are greeted with a smile.

And a kiss, his first kiss from John Watson, John Watson's first kiss with another man.

As their tongues touch, John's bashful, Sherlock's eager, he feels John's hand stroking down his side, to his abdomen, and is hard-pressed to restrain his glee. He had anticipated that John would not be ready to reciprocate this first go-round, no matter if he accepted this change between them or not, but John once said "it's all good" and meant it, so it really should be no surprise that he's eager to explore this new aspect of his sexuality.

His hand fists itself around Sherlock's cock, and the consulting detective doesn't bother to restrain his groan of pleasure. He knows it won't take long, especially since John continues kissing him, nipping at Sherlock's throat when they need to breathe, licking the sweat from his neck while Sherlock reaches around and runs his hands over John's arse. He is fit and compact and God he wants to slide his fingers up the other man's hole but restrains himself.

Next time. Because, oh God, yes, there will be a next time, but this time is perfect, bloody perfect, John's hands are both on his cock now, one cupping his balls, the other stroking stroking stroking until Sherlock comes with a shout as John nips his throat and sucks on it and there will be more sex and Molly and it will. Be. Perfect.


	2. Sherlolly

**Part Two: Sherlolly**

Molly is bent over a dead body, busy sewing it up when the door to the morgue bursts open in a way that she has come to realize is uniquely Sherlock. She starts at the noise, then smiles to herself as she finishes the job and re-covers the body, placing her needle and thread neatly away before turning to greet her visitor.

He is finally starting to put back on some of the weight he's lost over the past two and a half years, she notes approvingly. He hasn't been in the morgue for nearly two weeks, busy with an out-of-town case, and she's glad to see him.

She'll always be glad to see him, even if her dearest held fantasy – that he'll someday wake up and realize she's a woman and he's a man and their body parts were made to fit together – seems doomed to remain just that: a fantasy.

If he didn't have such a sexual epiphany during the adrenalin-fueled hours he'd spent in her flat after she smuggled him out of the morgue on that horrible day, then he's unlikely to suddenly notice her that way during the course of their usual interactions in the morgue.

He is, however, much more conscious of her feelings than he used to be, much better at treating her like a human being, the same way he treats John and Greg and Mrs. Hudson as human beings, so she counts that as a win and struggles to convince herself that she is content to have that much of him.

Still, she can't help wishing for more, especially times like now, when he is looking particularly gorgeous, his Belstaff collar turned up, turquoise shirt (not every man can pull off a color like that without looking completely gay or worse, ridiculous) that came closest to matching his changeable eyes at their bluest…

She pulls her thoughts back with an inward scolding. He's just walked into the morgue, for God's sake, not her bedroom; can't she at least maintain a professional attitude at work? With a fucking _dead body_ right next to her?

With his usual disregard for personal space, he walks right up to her and peers down interestedly at the body. Caucasian male, approximate age 18-22, gunshot wound to the back of the head. A mob hit, she already knows, and can tell Sherlock has ascertained the same information in roughly a third of the time it had taken her, all by the way he pulls his head back and his eyes flicker dismissively.

"What can I do for you, Sherlock?" she asks when he finally turns his attention to her. He is still standing very close to her, almost crowding her, but of course she doesn't mind – she's decided to take what she can get, hasn't she? And him standing in her personal space definitely counts as a win, even if it is only so he can criticize her work as he seems about to do.

Sure enough, the next words out of his mouth are: "Not up to your usual standard, Molly, your stitches are rather crooked." His lips lift in a mocking smile as he drawls: "A bit distracted, were you?"

She is still not used to being the focus of his occasional teasing, and is still uncomfortable when it verges on what in another man she would automatically label as flirtatious. Although she knows he is aware of her attraction for him, they have never discussed it, never brought it out into the open even during their most intimate conversations when he was "dead."

All their discussions then were about the job, the toll it was taking on them and John and the others, how they longed for it to be over (although of course Sherlock never expressed it in such emotional terms), what his next move would be and how she could help.

She knows he was also helped behind the scenes by his brother Mycroft, but the two of them haven't crossed paths since the Irene Adler autopsy, and she suspects Sherlock is responsible for keeping them deliberately apart. Not because he is worried about how his notoriously brusque brother will treat her, but because he resents having to rely on his brother this way and wants to keep the various parts of his life separate from one another.

She is fine with that; from her single experience with the man when Sherlock identified that woman by not-her-face (still a very hated memory), by what John has told her over the years and the few dark comments Sherlock has made, Mycroft Holmes is not a man she wishes to get to know better, even if he is Sherlock's brother and did save his life a few times near the end of his exile.

Meanwhile Sherlock is still smiling down at her, still standing very close to her, close enough that she brushes her shoulder against his torso when she turns away, flushing as he must have known she would at his comment. He knows that when she daydreams it is almost always sexual in nature, although he has never asked about whom she daydreams, and she has wisely kept her mouth shut on the subject. "I might have done a better job if someone didn't come crashing through the morgue doors in such a dramatic fashion," she says, proud of herself for not stuttering, for having an actual comeback and managing to cock an eyebrow at him as she speaks.

His smile deepens and she knows that is his way of showing he appreciates her riposte. They are much more comfortable around one another now, but sometimes she misses the days when she still had hopes for something more between them. Oh, they are still there, the hopes, but they have been reduced to mere wishful thinking now that reality has finally settled itself in her mind and heart.

So of course Sherlock has to destroy that carefully built up resignation by leaning forward and whispering in her ear as she starts to brush past him: "Come, Molly, you know you love it when I do that. Why do you think I wear this coat even on days when I clearly don't need it?"

She snaps her head back so hard it hurts, stares at him, composure completely destroyed as she finds herself gaping at him in disbelief.

His smile has changed to something less friendly and more…seductive, is her tentative, disbelieving conclusion. "Sh-Sherlock?" she squeaks out, the hated stammer returning as her cheeks flush. "What, what are you, why did you say…"

She falls silent as he places a finger on her lips, replacing it with his mouth a scant second later. It is a quick kiss, but not a merely friendly one; it lingers a bit too long to be mistaken for anything other than an expression of affection if not quite passion.

"Molly, would you mind if we had a private conversation when you finish here?"

His voice is deep thrum, very nearly a purr, and his eyes...God, those gorgeous blue-green-whatever-the-fuck-color eyes are staring deeply into hers. Just the way she's always wanted them to...

Which thought is like a dash of cold water on her face. She backs away from, breathing heavily, and demands: "What is this, Sherlock? Some kind of social experiment? Because if it is, I'm not, not interested."

He looks put out, almost annoyed; has she hit it on the head? Is he trying out "flirting" for a case and gauging her reactions?

"No, Molly, it's not an experiment," he says, sounding just as put out as he looks. Then his expression softens and he reaches up to stroke his hand down the curve of her face, fingers lingering on her chin. "When you've finished with this," he glances disinterestedly down at the corpse, "meet me in your office. There are a few downloaded items I discovered on your laptop when I was staying with you that I would like to...discuss."

Then he turns on heels, leaving a blushing, flustered Molly Hooper to grope after the tattered shreds of her composure and wonder what the hell just happened.

**oOo**

An hour later she opens the door to the small office she shares with two other pathologists – none of whom are currently on duty – and looks around. No Sherlock in sight; had he been running an experiment on her after all? If so, she is definitely not amused, and quite ready to read him the riot act the next time she sees him.

The feeling of a hand on her lower back, propelling her further into her office, is all the warning she receives that Sherlock is right behind her. She moves forward obediently, stopping only when she hears him closing the door behind them – and locking it.

She turns to face him, ready to demand an explanation when he says one word: "Threesomes."

She blushes immediately, a furious scarlet warming her chest and face and ears. When he'd said he wanted to discuss certain downloaded information he'd found on her computer, she had hoped that wasn't what he was referring to.

She opens her mouth to bluster her way out of this unexpected situation when he stops her words by the most efficient – and welcome – manner possible.

He takes the two steps separating them, pulls her into his arms and kisses her.

A real, open-mouthed, tongues-tangled, toe-curling, shiver-inducing kiss.

He's damned good at it for a supposed 36-year-old virgin.

She must make some sort of interrogative noise, because he pulls away and commences nuzzling her neck after murmuring: "Not a virgin, simply not interested in sex since uni. Until lately."

Then he sucks on a particularly sensitive spot at the base of her throat and she moans and clutches his shoulders before finally finding her voice enough to ask for clarification. "Sex...with me?"

He pulls back; at some point he's turned them so that her back is to the door. He settles himself on the edge of her desk, hauling her between his legs and peering intently into her eyes. "Not just with you, but primarily with you," he says.

She is not sure what to say to that, so all that comes out is a questioning: "Oh?"

"I gave John a blowjob earlier today," Sherlock says, his hands firm on her hips. "I overheard him masturbating and calling my name, so I took him up on the implied offer of intimacy. He let me suck his cock until he came in my mouth...and he called your name as well as mine."

Then he falls silent and continues to watch her.

Gauging her reaction.

Contrary to what Sherlock has said about her over the past few years, Molly is not stupid. She has a medical degree, after all, and just because her mind doesn't work at the same lightning speed his does doesn't make her stupid.

After he'd spent all that time in her flat while he was hiding out, she'd finally worked up the nerve to point that out to him.

And he'd agreed, and promised to do his best not to belittle her intelligence in future – although all bets were off as far as her clothing choices went.

Which is why she isn't just snapping at him for leading her on this way; why she doesn't immediately get all hurt and put out that he's confessed to entering into a homosexual relationship with John Watson and followed it up by kissing her the way she'd always wanted him to kiss her, making overtures of a relationship to her...

...because he prefaced his kisses and confession with that pointed mention of those downloaded files he'd found on her browser and presumably investigated at some point.

She has always harbored fantasies of having sex with two men at the same time, and of watching while they performed sexual acts on one another. Until Sherlock Holmes entered her life and became the main focus of her daydreams and masturbatory fantasies, there had always been images and thoughts of two men at once.

Sherlock alone seemed too much to hope for; the idea of sharing him with someone else, of having sex with him and another person, seemed so far beyond reach that even her rich imagination had been unable to come up with a viable fantasy. Especially because she knew how straight the only two men Sherlock interacted with on a regular basis were.

Well, John had apparently undergone some kind of sea change; who knew what might be revealed about Greg Lestrade?

He, however, was not the subject of this particular day's stunning revelations. Sherlock Holmes wants to have sex with her, Molly Hooper – but has already started a sexual relationship with John Watson.

Dear. God. The possibilities.

"Describe it," she finds herself whispering as her fingers reach up and toy with the buttons to Sherlock's shirt. She closes her eyes as he pulls her closer and presses his lips to her throat, licking and kissing his way to her ear.

His voice is barely a breath, sending shivers over her body, his hands carefully removing her lab coat as he says: "John was in the shower. I needed tooth floss." The sibilants in his words hiss against her neck, and she shivers again, digging her nails into his shoulder before shoving the Belstaff onto the desk.

"John was moaning, I could hear the movement of his hand on his cock as he stroked himself," Sherlock continues after he's finished unbuttoning her blouse. He sends it to the floor to join her lab coat, and she steps out of her shoes as he continues his unhurried recounting of the morning's events. "I was going to leave, I really was, but then I heard him moan my name. It was...intoxicating," he says, leaning down to press a series of kisses along her collarbone and shoulder, pulling her bra straps down over her arms, pulling her breasts free of the cups but leaving the bra itself on her body.

"You heard him coming," Molly says, her voice a shade huskier than normal as she surmises the next part.

Sherlock nods, lips busy sucking on her nipples, each one in turn, drawing them into his mouth, rolling his tongue along the pebbled aureoles and nipping at the hardened tips.

Molly moans, leans her head down to press a kiss to the top of his head, pulls his mouth up to meet hers, thrusting her tongue between his lips, entering into an intense duel as he molds his lips to hers and slides his hands down her hips.

When he starts describing John's reaction to his nudity, she goes into a near-frenzy, suddenly frantic to pull his trousers down around his knees, his pants, to press a line of kisses to his thighs and take his erection in her hands.

He leans back on his hands as she lowers her head to lick softly at the head of his penis. "Exactly what I did to John when I followed him up to his room," he murmurs, watching through half-lidded eyes as she strokes him from tip to stem, cupping his balls in one hand as she does her level best to swallow him down.

She's not worried about disease; she knows Sherlock would never have initiated this tantalizing session in her office if there were anything for her to be concerned about. She, however, feels the need to reassure him as she lifts her head from his cock and starts to remove her trousers and extremely damp knickers. "I've a birth control implant," she begins, breathless with want, but he shushes her with another one of those toe-curling kisses.

"I know. And John and I are both clean, no worries there."

Sherlock's voice has sunk to a deeper register and Molly speeds up the process of removing the remainder of her clothing, nearly tumbling to the floor in her haste to shuck off her trousers. Sherlock chuckles as his hands steady her.

"Don't laugh," Molly mumbles, but she isn't really embarrassed, far too eager to clamber up onto Sherlock's lap and lower herself onto his heated shaft to care about anything else.

He steadies her with his hands on her hips as she sinks down onto him, already slick and wet even though Sherlock hasn't put so much as a single finger on her sex. She leans forward with a contented sigh and kisses him, a series of soft, gentle kisses that rapidly turn heated as their bodies move together.

He slides his lips along the side of her neck, nipping lightly before brushing his mouth against her ear and whispering the filthiest series of suggestions as to what he wants to do to her and John.

She climaxes almost before he finishes speaking, gasping and crying out his name. He swoops in to kiss her again, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as he somehow manages to swing them around so she is collapsed on the desk and he is standing between her limply dangling legs, thrusting into her in time with the movements of his tongue. He reaches between them and presses lightly on her clit and suddenly Molly's afterglow has turned back into another cresting orgasm.

She turns her head just so she can catch her breath, pulling her mouth away from Sherlock's and he grins down at her, a feral, possessive grin that bares his teeth and the cresting orgasm turns into spasms of pure pleasure as she cries out his name again, clutching his shoulders with her hands, sinking her nails into his flesh and grinning a feral grin of her own as he convulses over her, his own orgasm seeming to take him by surprise.

After they have recovered enough to speak, Sherlock requests – orders, really, but Molly doesn't care – that she come to his flat immediately after work.

"After I feed my cat and change," she responds as he reluctantly pulls his sweaty, sticky body away from hers and grabs a handful of tissues to clean himself with. She leans on her elbows to watch him dress himself, not quite ready to do the same for herself. She hesitates, bites her lip, then asks softly as Sherlock pulls on his shirt and starts buttoning it: "Are you sure…"

He doesn't allow her to finish the question, stops buttoning to glower at her. "We're both sure, you should be too, Molly," he snaps, then softens the rebuke with a grin and a tender kiss that she returns with as much eagerness as it is offered. "We'll see you for dinner, then," Sherlock murmurs when the kiss ends, adding with a devilish glint in his eyes: "And dessert will be…spectacular."


	3. Jollock

**Part Three: Jollock**

John, of course, is a complete mess, rushing about straightening and tidying and fretting over what to do for supper when Sherlock eventually returns to the flat and oh-so-casually describes his recent tryst with Molly Hooper in her office.

He is a mess with an impressive hard-on the entire time, since he refuses to either allow Sherlock to "help" him or do anything about it himself. "Saving it for later," he mumbles when Sherlock tries to stop him in the midst of carting several piles of books back up to his own bedroom. His face is red – a combination of exertion and embarrassment, Sherlock surmises – but he is clearly looking forward to Molly joining them and so he leaves John to his cleaning. Sherlock's only contribution to the fuss is to retrieve his violin from where it is resting on his chair and place it carefully into its case. He rests the case against the corner of the mantle and retreats into his bedroom in order to escape being recruited into activities he finds completely unnecessary; Molly has already agreed to this tryst, why go to such bother to impress her?

But John will do what John will do, and Sherlock is content to retreat into his mind palace, sitting cross-legged on his bed and carefully going over the stream of filthy suggestions he so recently whispered into Molly's ear.

Some of them will be put to use very soon, some will be saved for later, but all of them, he determines, will eventually become reality.

oOo

Molly arrives promptly on the dot of six, as promised. Well, if she'd come right after work she'd have been there closer to five but six isn't too far off. Sherlock hears Mrs. Hudson letting her into the building and bounds out of his room, eager to begin the evening's entertainment. Not that he considers John and Molly "entertainment," of course, but now that his libido has been allowed free rein, he finds he can think of little else than indulging it. Until a case comes along, of course; he must make sure that Molly and John understand that, although he no longer considers himself married to his work, it still must take priority.

But not tonight. Not for the remainder of the weekend. He scowls as he realizes he should have told Molly to bring along an overnight bag. Still, it might be interesting if the three of them find themselves in her flat at some point...

While he is musing on such things Molly has ascended the stairs and knocked tentatively at the door. John reaches it before Sherlock, opening it and ushering Molly into the flat with a bashful smile.

She is wearing a calf-length trench coat and a pair of high-heeled black pumps Sherlock is positive she didn't own before today. "Left work early today to do some shopping, Molly?" he asks as she starts to undo the belt to her coat.

She pauses and gives him a shy smile before nodding. Her fingers stumble a bit as she unbuttons the coat, first depositing her oversized – and also new – handbag on the coffee table. John helps her remove the coat and she smiles her thanks to him.

Both men go very, very still as the dress she has donned – also new, Sherlock knows, being quite certain he'd never seen that particular shade of red in her closet before – is revealed.

The dress is like nothing they've ever seen Molly wear before, a tight red sheathe that falls just above her knees, strapless with a sweetheart neckline that shows off her modest cleavage to perfection. She is wearing no stockings and judging by the clinging fabric, either nothing underneath in the way of knickers or else a very tiny thong.

Judging by the flush of color in John's face, he is noticing the very same thing. Or else he is simply stunned by the sight of Molly Hooper in a dress that makes the one she wore that memorable Christmas Eve pale in comparison.

Her hair is loose over her shoulders, the way Sherlock has always secretly preferred to see it although he understands the practicalities of keeping her hair out of the way at work. There are no twee bows in her hair or excessive accessories this time, no jewelry at all. He approves.

"You look wonderful, Molly," John finally manages to say as he tries to hang her coat onto a hook without taking his eyes off their dinner guest.

Sherlock simply nods his agreement, continuing to devour her with his eyes as well. He hadn't been sure what to expect from Molly; would she be blushing and stammering, embarrassed by the idea of acting out one of her most secret fantasies, timid, nervous...

She is none of those things. Sherlock is both impressed by and aroused by how confident she seems. Perhaps it is the dress and their reactions to it; perhaps it was the fantastic sex she and Sherlock had shared earlier in the day. Whatever the reason, Molly seems ready for anything the evening might hold and Sherlock knows he and John will do nothing to ruin it for her.

**oOo**

Dinner is some red-sauced pasta dish Sherlock promptly forgets the name of. He supposes it is delicious but scarcely tastes a single bite, too focused on what he plans for after dinner to pay attention. Molly eats neatly but enthusiastically, praising John's efforts to the point where he turns a bit pink and starts mumbling that it wasn't anything, just a family recipe and other such trivial nonsense.

Sherlock contributes very little to the conversation, content to watch and listen to the other two, seated across and diagonally from him, respectively. The two very special people in his life, who have wormed their way into his heart and whose bodies he is just beginning to get to know as well.

They are sipping wine, Molly and John making small talk when Sherlock realizes he has absolutely no interest in waiting so much as a second longer to begin the real reason for Molly's visit to the flat. His erection has been straining at his trousers since she walked in the door and putting off the night's pleasure seems utterly ridiculous, when all three of them are presumably anticipating the same thing. He stands up, eliciting a surprised glance from John, who had leaned forward to make some point to Molly. She looks up as well, a questioning glance on her face, but when her eyes meet his hers widen just the slightest bit and her tongue darts out to touch her top lip and that. Is. It.

Sherlock shoves his chair back, reaches over and pulls Molly onto his lap. She squeaks in surprise and John makes a sound of protest (most likely because he wishes he had had thought to do so himself) and Sherlock hums in appreciation as her pert round bottom lands squarely on his erection. He presses a series of feverish kisses to her neck, then looks across the table so his eyes meet John's. "Well?" he growls as his hands come up to cup Molly's breasts through the silky fabric of her dress. "You've been dying to taste her all night, John, no time like the present!" Then he rucks Molly's dress up to her hips, exposing the fact that she is, indeed, wearing the tiniest of silken thongs beneath it – also red, although slightly lighter in shade – the front of which is clearly damp.

She has also done more than shopped for new clothing and a new handbag, Sherlock notes with the clinical, analytical part of his mind, the part he can't ever shut off completely. There is no sign of pubic hair peeping around the edges of that thin strip of fabric, so she has either had a bikini wax or possibly completely shaved herself.

He truly hadn't thought he could become any harder, but the anticipation of seeing which of his deductions is correct shows how wrong he is in that particular matter. Interesting. No, not the correct word…incredible. His hands slide down her body and he runs his fingers across the front of her thong as John continues to hesitate on the other side of the table.

It is Molly who manages to break the other man's temporary paralysis, by moaning loudly as Sherlock once again presses his mouth to her neck whilst simultaneously rubbing her pussy with one hand and kneading her right breast with the other. Her legs widen invitingly as her hands clutch Sherlock's hips and John is suddenly between them, kneeling on the floor between Molly and Sherlock's legs, fumbling with the buttons to his shirt before shrugging it off and leaning forward to press a series of eager kisses to the insides of her thighs.

John lunges up eagerly to press a hungry kiss to Molly's lips, which she returns with enthusiasm, reaching out to clutch his arms. Sherlock is pleased that his two people are showing so much pleasure with each other; he'd known John wanted Molly, but to see Molly responding with such fervor is gratifying.

He watches through avid eyes as John once again sinks to his knees, returning his mouth to Molly's thighs in a series of damp, open-mouthed kisses while her fingers brush against his hair and knead his scalp. Sherlock opens his own legs wider, pressing his hands to her knees to encourage her to do so as well – and to make it easier for her to keep her balance on his lap, as he has no intention of relinquishing her until John has turned her into a sopping wet mess.

What he does not anticipate, although it gives him a jolt of pleasure, is how John leans his face down to where Sherlock's bulge is just visible beneath Molly's sex and mouths Sherlock's erection through his trousers. He looks up with a wicked grin as Sherlock sucks in his breath, then delicately presses his fingers to the edges of Molly's cunt, opening her wide and pressing his mouth to her in an obscene kiss that wrings moan after pleasured moan from her throat.

Sherlock decides then and there that he is wearing entirely too much in the way of clothing and leans back against his chair, sliding one hand between him and Molly and unbuttoning his dress shirt – the purple one he knows she loves to see him in. He works the button and zip to his trouser as best he can without unseating her, and when he finishes he turns his attention to undoing the zip to Molly's dress. The tiny hook-and-eye combination at the top confounds him for a moment – especially when he feels John's fingers cupping his erection before returning to their exploration of Molly's exquisite little snatch – but eventually he undoes it and the smooth, creamy expanse of her back is revealed to his appreciative gaze – and fingers. He tugs on the fabric, lifting the dress over her head.

Molly raises her hands obligingly, but immediately returns to threading her fingers through John's hair as he continues to lick and suck at her pussy. She wriggles and writhes on Sherlock's lap the entire time, hooking her legs around his and those of the chair in order to keep from falling over.

He returns his hands to her waist, skin on skin now, and concentrates on sucking a dark pink mark into the side of her neck. She is _his_, although he is sharing her with John, and he wants her to remember that fact every time she sees her reflection this weekend.

He has already deduced her intention to stay if invited. Clearly her oversized handbag is large enough to hold a toothbrush and change of underpants and whatever else she might need. Possibly even a full change of clothes. He will have to investigate.

Later.

Molly brings one arm up around the back of his neck, tugging wildly at his dark curls, gasping and moaning John's name mixed in with a series of _oh God's_ and _yesyesyes_ and other garbled indications of her increasing pleasure. Sherlock slides his long fingers up her torso and pinches her nipples at the same time as biting down on the juncture of neck and shoulder and she goes rigid, nearly screaming her release, one hand still digging into his own head and the other just as desperately clutching John's.

After a moment Molly goes limp. Sherlock eases her arm down to her lap, nuzzles her softly and watches John as he sinks back on his heels, looking completely debauched with his face still shining from Molly's juices and his hair standing on end. Sherlock has no desire to resist any temptations tonight, and so he lifts Molly's limp form up, redeposits her on the chair and crawls over to lick John's face clean, tasting Molly at second-hand as he licks and nibbles and eventually kisses John on the mouth. He doesn't tease or slide his way between John's lips; he presses and thrusts, his tongue dueling frantically with John's while Molly watches and murmurs her appreciation of the sight she is being treated to.

**oOo**

Molly feels like the proverbial wet noodle, limp and boneless in the aftermath of her second orgasm of the day. One from Sherlock, one from John; fair is fair after all.

And now it is their turn. She is breathless, watching through avid eyes as the two men – shirtless, their torsos so different to one another but so lovely in their own way, one long, lean and pale, the other tanned and muscular – collapse onto the carpeted floor, bodies pressed together and mouths writhing against one another's lips as they kiss.

She wants to join them, there on the floor.

She wants to watch.

She can't make up her mind. Both options are tempting; she has fantasized about a night like this for so long she's afraid she'll paralyze herself with indecision.

Sherlock, as always, divines her thoughts and pulls his mouth away from John, turning to give her a look of such blatantly sexual desire that she trembles. "I've described what happened earlier, Molly. Wouldn't you like to see for yourself?"

She nods, incapable of speech. John makes what might be a sound of protest, but Sherlock covers his mouth with his again and reaches down to undo the button and zip to the other man's trousers. The remainder of their clothing is removed in record time, and Molly nearly faints with pleasure at the sight of Sherlock stroking John's hard length with those clever, talented fingers of his. Molly tucks her knees up to her chest and hugs her arms around herself, eyes wide and staring as Sherlock positions himself next to John, kneeling by the other man's side so she has a clear view of what happens next.

He kisses his way down John's neck and torso, the other man's eyes clenched shut until Sherlock demands that he open them. "Watch, John," Sherlock growls. "Both of you. Just watch. For now," he adds with a wicked grin, then resumes his leisurely kissing until he reaches the line of hair leading to John's navel. He licks his way down to John's crotch; the doctor moans and gasps, digging his fingers desperately into the short nap of the carpet, and Sherlock's mouth hovers over his friend's cock for a long, deliberate moment. Blue eyes snap up to meet brown; Molly is gasping, rubbing her thighs together, feeling the dampness between her legs increase as her arousal levels rise and threaten to overflow.

Then Sherlock lowers his head and takes the top of John's cock into his mouth – John is circumcised, Sherlock is not – and slowly begins to bob and lick and suck until he has taken the entire length into his mouth and throat.

Molly moans almost as loudly as John at the sight. Suddenly it is too much to take; she lowers her feet to the floor and slides off the chair, crawling over to the two men, kicking off her shoes and bringing her head down to take John's bollocks into her mouth as Sherlock continues to swallow down his length.

John bucks his hips and upper body off the floor with a loud cry at the sensation of a second pair of lips on his body; his eyes have closed in spite of Sherlock's admonition, but he opens them now to stare down at the two people working to give him what he will later swear is the best fucking orgasm of his entire life, bar none – including the time he was in Singapore and had a wild night with a pair of twin prostitutes.

As John's body settles back to the floor, Sherlock eases upwards, removing his mouth slowly until only his tongue remains on his friend's cock, licking and teasing. He looks at Molly again, his eyes inviting her to join him, which she eagerly does. Their tongues touch as they lick John's shaft from bottom to top and back again, and Molly swings her body around so her ass is facing toward John's head, clad only in the tiny thong. She feels his hand clutching her buttocks, hears him moaning her name and Sherlock's and feels a flush of heat shudder over her from head to toe, settling like a bolt of lightning between her legs. She widens them just a bit, and John takes it as the invitation it clearly is, his fingers sliding down the curve of her ass and dipping into her pussy.

Molly moans and licks John harder as he finger-fucks her, bucking her hips against his hand. He has at least two inside her, possibly three, and she wants to feel his shaft inside her so badly she almost shoves Sherlock aside in her desire to mount John.

Her moans become sharp cries and mewls as she feels one of John's fingers, slick with her juices, slide up the crack of her ass and then back down again, pressing lightly against her tight hole. "God, yes," she gasps out before taking the head of his cock in her mouth. Sherlock obligingly moves his own mouth down, sucking at John's bollocks the way she was only moments earlier, and then John gives a strangled cry of warning that she doesn't need; she is eager to swallow down his cum, to taste him the way he tasted her, and moves her head faster and faster until John can no longer control himself.

He comes with a shout, calling her name, his cum hot in her mouth and throat. She licks his tip when he is finished, then pulls her head up.

John's fingers have gone still, pulled out of her completely, but she has no complaints. Well, she certainly would like them back where they were but she understands how hard it is to concentrate when your entire body feels like a tornado has just passed through it in the wake of a lightning storm.

She looks over at Sherlock as she eases back onto her heels. He pulls her to him and kisses her, licking the remaining cum from her face much as he licked her own juices from John earlier. "Ass play, Molly?" he says in a teasing voice that nevertheless sends a thrum of desire down her spin. God, his voice, she could come just from listening to his voice. "You are a naughty girl, aren't you." His fingers drift down to her freshly bikini-waxed crotch, stroking the strip of remaining hair through the thong with what feels like appreciation. "Very, very naughty, Doctor Hooper."

She gives him a challenging look in spite of her desire to press his fingers deep, deep inside her and rock against him until she comes again. "Not anything you can't handle, I hope?" she asks, pleased when her voice comes out husky and sexy and not squeaky and nervous. Because, no matter how confidently she's been projecting herself, her personal sexual experience isn't quite as varied as her imaginary experiences have been. She's had a finger up her ass before, yes, but nothing larger – and she wants Sherlock inside her that way and John inside her pussy at the same time.

But she isn't ready to articulate that, just leans down to give John a tender kiss as he continues to recline on the carpet, eyes shut and blissful expression not even close to fading from his face. "John, Sherlock hasn't been taken care of yet," she murmurs in his ear. "Do you mind if I..."

He opens one eye and smiles at her. "Please, just don't be surprised if I get the energy to join in."

"John has a remarkably quick recuperation period," Sherlock agrees. "Sofa, Molly?"

He helps haul her to her feet – John as well, although he protests that he's quite comfortable where he is – and guides her to the piece of furniture in question. John settles into the chair opposite, obviously intent on watching whatever happens next.

Molly wonders what happened to the shy, quiet girl who wouldn't say "boo" to a mouse. She's never felt so free, so wanton, so unselfconscious. She knows it has everything to do with Sherlock; the way he came to her that afternoon, the incredible sex they'd had in her office, and the way he and John both clearly lusted after her as soon as she shucked off her brand new trenchcoat.

Sherlock interrupts her thoughts by pulling her down onto his lap so she is facing him, gliding his hands down her back from her shoulderblades to the curve of her arse in a light, almost tickling motion that nearly drives her insane with desire. She darts her head forward for a kiss, grabbing his head roughly between her hands and insistently sliding her tongue between his lips.

He responds instantly, opening his mouth beneath hers, his own tongue tangling with hers as his hands grab her ass a bit more roughly, pulling her cheeks wide as he slips a finger into her with none of the delicacy of touch she knows he is capable of.

No, this second coupling, with John Watson sitting and watching them, is much rougher, much more of a dominance play than what they shared before. Molly's hands slide down Sherlock's pale, muscular chest, stopping only to grasp his hard length, to stroke him as she nips at his elegant expanse of neck, sucking her own mark into his the way he has done to her. He groans and thrusts his hips upward, and Molly takes that as the only invitation she needs. She lifts herself onto her knees and uses one hand to guide him into her welcoming wetness.

**oOo**

John is still having a difficult time believing how much his life has changed in just one day. None of his wildest, raunchiest fantasies come close to comparing to the reality of entering into a sexual relationship with Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper.

He is getting hard again just watching the two of them fuck each other on the sofa, Molly's arse rising and falling, the flashes of Sherlock's cock as he slides in and out of her cunt, her tits bouncing as she presses her hands against Sherlock's chest...

With a groan John takes his own cock in hand and feels it harden into full erection with just a few strokes. But he doesn't want to just watch and take care of it himself, not after having two mouths and lips and tongues bringing him to such a fierce orgasm. No, he wants to join the fun, show the other two he isn't afraid of being labeled gay or bi or anything else, show them he, too, can be as free and uninhibited as they are.

He rises to his feet, hand still stroking his cock as he approaches the other two, kneeling between their legs as he did before, but this time his tongue touches not only Molly's slick feminine wetness but also Sherlock's cock, shiny and just as slick with her juices; his hands are on Sherlock's thighs, widening them so he can fit more comfortable between them.

He hears Sherlock give a deep groan as his tongue rakes it way from the other man's bollocks to the base of his cock, hears Molly give a sharp gasp as he continues the movement of his tongue along her opening and up along the crack of her arse until he reaches that tight hole his finger was investigating not so long ago. He moves his head slowly at first, then synchronizes his rhythm so that the three of them are moving as one, is tongue flicking along Molly's ass, slipping inside and out, tongue-fucking her as Sherlock's dick brings her closer and closer to another orgasm.

When it comes it is not quiet or subtle; Molly literally shrieks her pleasure as her body goes rigid; she slams herself down on Sherock's cock so hard he winces, then shudders as his own orgasm rapidly follows hers. John pulls away to give them time to recover before gently tugging Molly off of Sherlock's body, lying her on the sofa with her head on the armrest as he leans down and does for the other two what Sherlock just did for him.

He licks every trace of Molly from Sherlock's softening dick, then settles himself across his friend's lap (his lover's lap?) with his head between Molly's legs, eager to taste her with Sherlock's cum still inside her, dribbling from between her legs. He knows she will be overly sensitive after coming twice in such a short period of time, and feels he can be forgiven a bit of smugness at the knowledge that his mouth had brought her so much pleasure.

He swipes his tongue across her opening, being as soft and careful as he can when he is impatient to plunge his mouth against her pussy the way he did before. She whimpers and presses her hand against his head, not pushing him away but encouraging him, and he feels his erection getting harder by the second. How will he manage to keep from plunging into her the way he wants to?

He feels Sherlock's hands caressing his buttocks and moans, digging his fingers into Molly's thighs. She gasps and rocks against his face and he redoubles his efforts to clean her up the way he did for Sherlock, to taste the two of them together, a mingling of musk and pleasure he has never experienced before. It is heady, intoxicating, and he knows he will have to solicit at least a hand job from one of them to relieve the growing ache in his groin, when Sherlock speaks.

"Molly, John wants you. I can tell you're ready for him, so perhaps if you'll both allow me to...?" His words trail off as John obligingly rolls his body off the sofa and Molly's fingers reluctantly loosen the death-grip they've had on his hair. John watches, absently stroking his hard length as Sherlock settles himself into the corner of the sofa, pulling Molly forward by her ankles so she is sprawled on her back.

There is a wicked gleam in her eyes as she hooks one leg over the back of the sofa, the other slipping over the edge so her foot is planted on the floor. She is completely open to their view, the thong having long since vanished, and John groans and falls on her like a starving man on a feast, kissing her, positioning himself and then plunging into her. Her leg falls across his shoulder and he gasps and swears and calls her name as he thrusts into her as hard and fast as he can, unable to control himself in spite of his knowledge that she must be on the edge of physical pain from all the stimulation.

He is vaguely aware of Sherlock's body behind him, feels the movement as he rises from the sofa – no, not from the sofa, just to his knees. John lets out a particularly coarse vulgarity as he feels Sherlock's tongue flicking across his opening, and thrusts into Molly even harder, gasping and trembling as he feels himself suddenly on the brink of his second orgasm of the evening. Christ, he hasn't had this much sex since med school, and is a bit proud of the fact that he doesn't appear to have lost any of his youthful stamina.

He feels Sherlock reaching around his body to press his thumb against Molly's clit. She screams again, digging her hands into John's shoulders almost painfully, and that does it. He comes with a shout of his own and collapses against her, feeling Sherlock come to rest with his head on John's back and his hand moving up to stroke Molly's arm, the only part of her he can currently reach.

Eventually they disentangle themselves, Molly laughingly protesting the full weight of two grown men pressing her into the sofa cushions. They offer her the use of the shower – well, John does, while Sherlock simply sits there and looks about as self-satisfied as he ever has after successfully solving a case or proving some point with his brilliant deductions.

"It's no fun showering alone," Molly says with a smile that lands somewhere between innocent and wickedly wanton, an amazing feat in John's opinion. He glances at Sherlock, whose eyebrow has quirked up in tandem with the corner of his lip.

He waves a lazy hand, indicating that the other two should go on without him. "I'll shower after. There's not enough room for three, unfortunately. Meet me in my bedroom, the bed's larger and more comfortable than yours, John." Then he folds his legs up beneath him, raises his hands up in the familiar "thinking" position he favors and appears to vanish into his mind palace.

Molly gives him a puzzled look, but John shakes his head and smiles, grabbing her hand and tugging her lightly along. There won't be any shower sex – even his recuperative powers aren't up to anything so strenuous just yet – but it will be a great deal of fun helping her soap herself up.

They are comfortably snuggling under Sherlock's duvet, lightly kissing and stroking one another's body when they hear his flat mate enter the shower. Less than five minutes later he is out again, and less than three minutes after the water stops he has joined them in bed, climbing in and tucking himself against Molly's back, nuzzling the back of her neck and reaching over to stroke his hand along John's arm and side.

Nobody speaks or does more than murmur appreciative sounds for a while, then Sherlock breaks the silence. "Does it need to be said that I would like this new relationship between us to continue beyond this weekend?"

John meets his eyes squarely. "Course not. Molly?" He lowers his gaze to meet hers; Sherlock is behind her and can't see the tears of pure joy that have sprung from her eyes, so John lifts his friend's hand from where it has come to rest on his hip and gently uses his thumb to wipe the tears away. "I think that's a yes as well, Sherlock," he says with a grin.

Molly nods her head so violently John is concerned she will accidentally jab Sherlock's thumb into her eye. But Sherlock pulls his hand away, running his fingers through her hair and leaning closer to press a series of light kisses along the nape of her neck even as John brings his lips to hers, reaching across her body to run his hand along Sherlock's flank. This is the maddest, most impractical thing he's ever contemplated doing in his life, and yet it feels completely right.

"So," he hears his friend say as he flicks his tongue across Molly's ear, eliciting one of her wonderful, breathy moans. "Shall we so something about the list of suggestions I gave you this afternoon, hmm?"

John has no idea which of the many filthy things Sherlock told him he'd whispered to Molly during their first bout of sex he plans for the three of them, but he knows one thing: He is looking forward to making them all come true.


End file.
